How To Be Dead
by aerolaunch
Summary: After years of solving London's most ritiving crimes, Sherlock Holmes still manages to find a challenge. Tonight it seems to be a nocturnal newborn and nightmares only his daughter could dream up. So let's play a game. Let's play 'Daddy'. Shamelessly Sherlene. Soon to be a collection of Oneshots.


**A/N: All rights to Sir ACD(C) and the BBC, the later of whom wrecked me on New Years. **

Chapter 1: Sometime Around Two

"Sherlock?"

Sleep is dull, but it quickly becomes the sweetest thing once someone thinks otherwise of it.

"Sherlock..."

Namely a screaming newborn and a certain disheveled mother. Damn the Woman and the infant.

"Sherlock!"

"I'm up! I'm up!" he blurted in a nervous succession as he rapidly turned around and twisted into an upright position. So this is what two in the morning looked like, he thought, in his more recent venture at life at least. At two in the morning he still didn't know what to make of the woman next to him, or the notion of waking up next to anyone at all. None the less he found it surprisingly intriguing to analyze. The light illuminating softly from the table lamp did wonders to accent the way her hair tumbled down her shoulders, not to mention how the creases in her nightshirt, really his day shirt, fit her arms like a cradle for their child and he caught himself staring. Now what to do about that wailing...

"What's this all about? Woman, what did you do to him?"

She scowled irritably, "You're kidding me.."

"Indeed..."He blinked the last traces of sleep from his eyes, clearly getting the message that she wasn't in the mood, "Do you want me to take him?"

Irene looked back at him, face twisted with complementary gratitude and the sarcasm that came with it.

"Really now? After seven weeks without assistance you'd think I could do this all by myself."

"Sarcasm taken. Give him here." He held his arms out sloppily, still unfamiliar with how to hold an infant. A tenderly amused smile spread across her face but she instead opted for other plans.

"I was being completely serious darling, and it's not like you'd know what to do. I know for a fact you didn't read that book John bought you, surprise, surprise..." she turned her attention to the shadow in the doorframe. "Besides, someone else requires your attention right now."

He pursed his lips at the sight of the little shadow coming into focus, or at best the glow of her eyes, really his eyes, lit against the onyx of her hair and the hall. Irene always left him with the more difficult problems.

"Burden, why are you awake?" Sherlock asked his daughter, his welcomed burden and the only mistake he ever saw fit in having made. He motioned for her to come to the bedside but she only inched further back into the darkness of the hall, a timid character that Sherlock had never seen her display before. Her eyes were his and he could see the fear he never thought she had in them.

"What's the matter love? Have a bad dream?" Irene asked over the baby's now subsiding screams. She nodded solemnly, as if ashamed, which Sherlock was confident she was. Irene was now shooting him a menacing glare comparable to any threat on his life. Taking the hint, the detective slid out of bed and into his robe before pulling his daughter from the door and into his arms.

"Alright Jules let's figure this one out."

Down the dark hallway and into her room he noticed his senses becoming more drawn to the way her little hands felt intertwined behind his neck, or the compulsion to press his nose into the smell of her ever so slightly wavy black hair, her mother's, and how the scent of lilac tangled with chlorine. Her bath hadn't completely wiped out the traces of her curiosity with his chemical collection, he noted. Sherlock assured himself that these affections were not unreasonable, uncharacteristic totally, but not without purpose. Affection was the chemical reaction to seeing ones offspring in a state of distress. Science always did wonders to mask his latent fear of normalcy.

"Do you want me to play your song or do you want to go back to bed?"

Sherlock switched the lamp light on before placing her small body back onto the bed, only to be rebuffed by the tightening of her fingers still locked around his neck. He scowled but proceeded to pick her up again, realizing also that perhaps the last thing Irene wanted him to solve the problem with was the violin at two in the bloody morning. "Really Jules I'm starting to worry about your lack of verbal response, considering it's usually your strong point..."

"My name is Sophia," she muttered as forcefully as she could, her little voice muffled by Sherlock's favorite blue robe.

Her father grinned, "No it's not."

Silence eclipsed the pair as he slowly paced around the room, careful not to stumble over one of the many books sprawled across the floor. She surely hadn't picked up on her mother's impeccability for cleanliness. Carrying her in his arms with ease he noted the fragility of her frame and how small she was, medically undersized for a six year old and in a parental manner, pondering the once impossible notion that he could behold a biological copy of himself. He would consult with John about her potential dietary deficiencies in the morning, followed by the start of a comprehensive longitudinal study concerning her development. Science to the rescue.

"Did you want to talk about it?" his voice piercing the darkness in a well contemplated whisper. He didn't have to see her face to know that she wasn't asleep, her pulsing heart against his chest was proof enough. Pulse. He considered himself a resident expert on the matter- The Woman would agree.

"Would it be...therapeutic?" she answered back, either in a question or a statement containing an uneasy use of a new vocabulary word.

Sherlock smiled, and although she couldn't witness it with her face buried in his shoulder, she could feel it in his words. "Where did you learn that word Jules?"

"Uncle John used it when he took me to the museum yesterday." She placed her following words carefully, "He said that the time away from home might be therapeutic."

Sherlock, slightly taken back at his best friend's statement, pondered this idea to himself. What would she have been talking about for him to say something of that nature?

"Did I use it incorrectly?"

He snapped back into focus and began to rock her softly, "No, you were perfectly correct."

"I usually am."

She was his, in every way possible. "You usually are," he agreed softly, proudly.

He soaked her in. The impossibility of her existence far exceeded that of her newborn brother's, and although both of his children proved to be contrary to his previous fathoms about family, none whatsoever, Juliet Sophia Karachi Holmes was his enigma. She was conceived out of admiration and raw adrenaline, but born into what Sherlock could only describe as indescribable, so it must be love. He swallowed the idea of it a long time ago, like the key to his heart's locket, rising to the surface only on nights such as this; at two in the morning, shielding her little body while roaming around the room surrounded by nightmares of both kinds. Love and demons.

"What did you dream about?" he whispered softly into her ear, almost as softly as he was accustomed to whispering into her mother's, for different reasons of course. Juliet shifted uncomfortably in his arms.

"If I tell you...will you care?"

He flinched and she felt it. Hesitation clearly wasn't on his side either. "Yes, always my darling." Sherlock responded softly, as convincingly as possible, for he knew that his restrained sentiment towards her didn't do justice to his genuine feelings, however muted they were. His daughter sighed quietly, pausing to recollect her dream. She was taking a risk letting him in.

"I was in a room...I don't know where, but it was cold and empty..." she paused painfully. Sherlock could feel her heart stop against his chest, just for a second; one of the worst feelings he ever felt. "And there was a body with me."

His ears perked up instinctively, "Male or female? How old do you estimate? Could you confirm a time or cause of death?-"

"I killed him."

That's when his detective facade dropped entirely. The sharp articulation of her words laced into the soft, childish melody of her voice never disturbed him until that moment, and each syllable that followed only cut deeper and deeper into the heart only few knew he had. "It was scary. I was older too...my hands were different, I could see them in front of me and the bones were longer than mines now, like you taught me. I don't know how it happened, and I didn't have time to figure it out before you and Uncle John came in. You were screaming at me and I deduced that it must have been my fault...I'm sorry."

"No, you have nothing to be sorry for..." Sherlock spoke slowly, his usually eloquent speech hindered by pure disbelief. How many times had he overheard accusations around Scotland Yard pertaining to his potential as a criminal mastermind, and yet it never bothered him until now, because she was just like him in every sense that made him dangerous. He should know what to do. As her father, he thought, he should know what to do, and despite his early skepticism of the idea of 'paternal instincts' he never wanted them more than he did in that moment. The Woman would know what to do. As strange as it was, and as John continued to see it, Irene Adler was by all means, a capable albeit remarkable mother, something that downright startled him at first but now amazed him to no end. This fact was then solidified when he attempted to plan his own course of action as to how to comfort his normally stoic daughter and for one of the few times in his life he came up with nothing but question marks. His girls always forced him to question marks. So instead, he did what he does best.

"Close your eyes and go back to that room. Give me the basics. Can you do that?"

She nodded assuredly, pausing for the briefest moment to think. "Caucasian male, a child. He's probably around ten years old because of the teeth he was missing, like you were telling me about."

"Lack of first and second molars. Continue."

She paused, taking her time to mentally recount the idiosyncrasies of her nightmare; lost in the minutia. "His clothes are messed up, but he likes to wear nice stuff, even in casual situations. I can tell because his blazer looks like its been washed a lot, and his tie is worn."

"Could it be a uniform?" Sherlock interjected.

"Of course not. For starters there isn't a patch that said what school he went to, the blazer and dress shirt are from a fancy store. His mum bought it, obviously." Her father smiled bit at that remark.

"So why are his clothes disheveled?"

"What does that mean?"

The detective suddenly remembered that despite her vastly remarkable intellect and superb vocabulary for her age, his daughter was still only six years old. "Disheveled is another way of saying 'messy or unkept'."

"I was getting there," she frowned defensively.

"My apologies D.I. Holmes."

"Stop insulting me."

Sherlock couldn't help but laugh, a sensation normally suppressed but at this moment, completely natural. "Continue."

"As I was saying," she huffed adorably before her voice softened considerably, "there are purple marks around his neck. The color is...I think two hours old?"

"Is it more maroon or plum?"

"Plum."

"Excellent."

Juliet squeezed her blue eyes shut, sinking deeper and deeper into a realm of imagination turned too realistic. "The fingerprints..." she focused her concentration into her microscope-like eyes; her father's. Suddenly, she sighed. "The fingerprints are not mine."

"Good," Sherlock said, pleased. He knew more information was attainable that might sway her conclusion but they were absolutely unnecessary at the moment. For the time being he enjoyed reveling in the fact that his daughter was at eased and frankly ingenious.

"See, so it couldn't have been you."

"Perhaps..." her voice and body tightened synchronously, "but why were you yelling at me?"

Sherlock looked up at the ceiling at pressed his chin atop her head, nestling her flush against the warmth of his body. "Because it was a nightmare."

They paced the room in shrouded in silence until a wayward thought slipped into his head. "When did you memorize your finger print pattern by the way?"

"We finger paint a lot in primary school..."

He laughed softly, "Uncle Mycroft is sure getting his money's worth with your education."

"Uncle Mycroft is a secret agent," said Juliet impassively after a thought and a pause.

Sherlock couldn't help but scrunch his brow at her childish statement. "Explain."

"He's M...from MI6."

"Ha! He wishes..." he muttered under his breath, humoring Juliet, now failing to suppress her lips from curling into a long overdue smile.

"I'll paint him something."

They had come a long way. She was his burden and his alone. That once disdainful word had become more or less a pet name, a term of endearment only Sherlock Holmes could find acceptable. That and she was Jules.

"Daddy?"

His eyes blinked open. She never calls him that. "Yes Juliet?"

"Do you have nightmares?"

Sherlock bit his lip, deciding just how honest he wanted to be with her tonight.

"Yes..." he said after a long, uneasy pause.

"About what?"

'Of losing you, or The Woman, or the infant, or John, or Mrs. Hudson...and maybe Mycroft,' he thought, painfully pondering the idea. He cradled her head closer to him as he allowed his fingers to be lost in the waves of her thick ebony locks, thinking against his better judgement of all the ways she could be taken from him. The ease of which unwelcome scenarios of her disappearance or worse, demise, flooded his normally impenetrable mind palace downright frightened him, and he held his daughter even tighter. After much thought, he answered Juliet carefully.

"Falling."

Juliet answered with a curious silence.

"When I was a boy, not much older than you, I would climb this large oak tree in the back of our estate. When I would get to the top, I'd look down and think about how high above everything and everyone I was. It was the most amazing feeling. Then I realized how it might be like to fall. How quickly falling from that top branch would be...and how fast it would be to...be at the bottom again."

This was the notoriously stoic detective chipping away in front of the person who needed him to the most.

"Beyond the tree there was an abandoned well. I would stare down the well and lose myself in the darkness that pooled at the bottom. I would think about how proud I was to be above whatever was at the bottom. Then I'd think about how lost I'd be if I ever fell down. The well was twice as deep as the oak tree was tall."

Sherlock stopped his story as softly as possible, allowing the deep rumble of his voice to linger around her little ears. She was starting to become heavy as her fingers loosened from the clasp behind his neck, and he could feel that she too was falling. He ceased pacing around in the circular path he had accustomed himself to in the past twenty minutes or so and crept as quietly as possible towards her bed until she startled him with a final whisper.

"Have you ever fallen Daddy?"

He smiled bittersweetly, eyes softening in a way he never thought possible, the ice of their blue orbs melting.

"Yes."

Juliet's fingers clenched together forcefully once again, her legs attempting to wrap around her father as if to say without speaking; 'Don't let me go'.

"But as I was falling, I didn't think about dying...I was counting," he said, starting to lower her down slowly back into bed, " Ten...nine...eight..."

"Seven...six"

"Five...four...it was like falling..."

"Three...two...asleep..."

"One...and then falling became no different than flying."

He released her gently into the sea of sheets and pillows, so softly that she might as well have been floating. Before clicking the lamp off, Sherlock indulged himself with one final look at his impossible girl. In the blush of the lamp-light Juliet was her mother's splitting image, but she still managed to get away with those shades of Sherlock that had always made her undoubtably his. And that was without ever opening her mouth. They had both behaved uncharacteristically tonight, he thought to himself as he rubbed his fingers around the switch, tricking his mind into allotting him a few more precious seconds to watch her sleep. It was something he hadn't done since she was a baby but admittedly he used to do often. Two-thirty in the morning, Sherlock pondered. What a strange time.

"Goodnight Juliet. Parting is such sweet sorrow."

He smiled, switched off the light and returned to bed.

...

"So how did it go?"

Sherlock, now under the comfort of his own sheets, shrugged slightly as he lay wide awake, "Fine. She just had a nightmare, it won't happen again."

Once again, Irene found herself frowning at his parental reasoning, "Those aren't the kinds of things one can guarantee wont happen again Sherlock..."

Instead, he turned his head over to her and smirked, "She'll learn."

Still unconvinced but nevertheless relieved that the situation had gone so well, Irene suppressed the need to educate him on parenting. It's not like she was any better at it, she thought, and although their daughter had spent her earliest formative years under her sole protection, Sherlock still had a way with Juliet that she knew was unrivaled. It almost scared her how blatantly pleased he seemed to be, that and how uncomfortably domestic they all had been. If this charade carried on any longer, she thought, they might as well go mad, get married, and move out to a quaint country estate somewhere void of the chaos that normally ensued in their lives.

"I'm thinking about taking Burden to Scotland Yard tomorrow."

There. That was the reality she wanted.

"Really? I think she'd like that..." They were now nearly nose to nose, and he could feel the smoothness in her voice just as strongly as she could feel the rumble of his. "Since I haven't had a solid case in a while I was thinking that it might actually be a good idea to run through the archives with her. It would be beneficial if she could take on the one through five level cases from now on so John and I can focus on the remainder. Or at least John can do sixes...I don't leave the flat-"

"I know dear, for anything lower than a seven."

He frowned, "as I was saying, I think it's about time Burden started contributing to the good of the family."

"Sherlock, she's six! She's not entitled to contribute anything to this family of that nature, never mind do your dirty work." Irene exclaimed as their once tender moment proved once again to be susceptible to his annoying tendencies. "Sophia," she stressed, "still has school, in case you'd forgotten."

"Her name is Juliet."

"Then why do you call her Burden?"

"Why do you call me darling?"

"Why do you call me Woman?"

"Because that was your former professional-"

"Never mind that!"

Sherlock sulked and turned over to his other side so that his back met her sour expression. He needs to find a case soon, she thought, this is what happens when they get too domestic.

"It's been six years and we still haven't gotten her name straight," Sherlock remarked, irritation still lacing his tone.

"That's quite like us isn't it?" Irene thought aloud. "Although I was perfectly fine naming her Sophia Adler until you insisted on changing it five months in."

"I didn't know she existed until five months in, in case you'd forgotten."

She managed to smile in a manner that felt more like cracking a sliver in her porcelain face. They'd already made their apologies for two years of casual intimacy and the next four years of the convenient familial encounters that came with having a child amidst suppressed sentiment. The more recent two years were the antithesis; the proof was sleeping restlessly in the cot across the room. Instead of stewing over their sad attempts at normalcy, however, she began her work by placing her warm palms on his exposed back and easing her hand over his shoulder so that it wrapped around him, her chin propped up a top his arm. He wanted her to stop. He wanted to curl up in his own private ball and wish her magic away but as always, her intoxicating caress was proving to be too much.

"Maybe it would've be better if I hadn't know about her at all, then she wouldn't have to be burdened with my deficiencies as a father."

"You don't mean that," she whispered melodically, sending cocaine comparable pulses through his mind and body alike. She was right. She normally is. "I always knew she was going to be a lot like you."

"Yes...perhaps," the detective thought to himself, recollecting memories made not ten minutes ago. He turned his head to look the woman in the eyes, "But she's starting to look more like you."

"Lucky her," Irene smiled as she pushed his ebony locks from his forehead, leaning down towards him until their lips were just about to brush. To this day she still knew how to tantalize him.

"See, we're doing okay."

"I should say so."

They didn't kiss often, but he liked to think that there was a sort of calculated sentiment in being able to remember every time that they did. Not that he would ever admit it.

"Well Mr. Holmes, since we've somehow exhausted our need for sleep, what do you suggest we do now?" Irene smiled down at him with one of her signature smirks. Sherlock could feel the edges of his lips curling, his best suggestive smile, as he ran his fingers down the curves of her waist. And then the baby began to whimper.

"Ooh, so close tonight!" The Woman laughed as she peeled from the bed to retrieve her distraught nearly two month old son from the cot across the room. "I swear we just went through this, my little one. You must have inherited these terrible sleeping habits from your father," she lifted the fussing infant up and kissed his warm little forehead, "Isn't that right Addie?

Sherlock frowned, "I much don't approve of that nickname." Irene had now returned to his side, his infant double in her arms, and for the third time too many tonight she found herself downright annoyed with a certain detective.

"And why is that Daddy?" she asked, emphasizing his title in a deliberately mocking manner. He much didn't approve of that nickname either...most of the time.

"It detracts from his innate uniqueness," he answered as Irene rolled her eyes.

"Well I much don't approve of you calling our daughter a burden..." she retorted sharply, "and besides, Addie is cute."

Sherlock looked closer over their son, who was finally beginning to calm down. His whisks of soft black hair curled ever so slightly at their ends, framing his blushed little baby-doll face. The baby's eyes peered around drowsily, still a murky blue unable to trace a maternal or paternal origin. Sherlock deduced, hoped, it would be Irene's.

"Atticus Holmes, your lack of adequate sleep increases the likelihood that you'll develop cognitive difficulties," Sherlock spoke to his son as he brushed his hand over the his soft patch of hair. Irene gave him a look half between a smile and a scowl for attempting to be paternal in the most inconvenient way. "Besides," Sherlock began, "your mother is getting cross. One of the most unfortunate things about your existence is that you'll always have to worry about making your mother cross."

"I think you're referring to your own existence dear, as in this instant."

"Hmm..." he mused quietly to himself, bluish-green eyes now locked with the drowsy eyes of the baby. "She's frightening isn't she Atticus?"

"Hmp," she pouted, "if he's anything like you he'll get to know all about it in time."

Suddenly, the melodies of the floorboards began to sound and before Sherlock could make a proper deduction of what creature was coming down the hallway, his daughter once again found her way into their room.

"Juliet, sweetheart what's the matter? Did you have another dream?"

Instead of answering her mother's query, tired little Juliet Holmes proceeded to crawl into her parent's bed and nestle herself between them so that she was somewhere in Sherlock's arms and Atticus in their mother's. Sherlock and Irene exchanged inquisitive expressions. Even after all they'd been through, this was what still scared them the most; the fact that these two living, breathing, and extremely real children cozied between them were theirs, and they loved them.

"Mummy, why is Misha out of his cot?" Juliet mumbled in her half sleep.

Her parents once again looked at each other in confusion, "Misha?"

"The baby...my baby brother..." she started to trail off as sleep slowly began to overtake her.

Sherlock gazed down a her curiously, "Well obviously." Irene shot him a menacing glance, to which he responded without the slightest hesitation. "Where did that name come from Jules?"

Juliet yawned, "Uncle John calls him that all the time. He says it was his sister's nickname for him when he was little."

Misha. Hamish. Atticus Hamish Adler Holmes.

"Speaking of names, Burden, your mother and I have decided that your name is going to be Juliet all the time from now on."

Irene simply signed as she gently began to twist more curls into her daughter's already wavy hair.

"Whatever you say...," Juliet mumbled drowsily.

At least their various name debacles had been solved. Now what to do with their current dilemma...

"Sweetheart," Irene cooed, "the real question is why aren't you in your bed?"

"Because Daddy told me a scary story."

The tenderness in Sherlock Holmes' face left almost as quickly as it came and his eyes darted up to meet the cold stare of Irene Adler. He glanced back down at Juliet just to see her finally descend into a quite sleep. 'Sneaky kid', he thought. 'Scotland Yard tomorrow it is.'

...

**A/N: Thank you for taking the time to read this! Reviews and PROMPTS are most welcomed and encouraged! I'm hoping to turn this into an anthology of oneshots. What do you guys think? **


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